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Chapter 19
Mia’s Letter
For the first couple years after we were denied asylum, my mother checked in yearly with Immigration and Customs Enforcement as I’ve said. I focused on my degree while working full-time at several different jobs. I was so determined to graduate and be able to give my mother a life with less stress about income.
My friend Carmen is a programmer. During my last semester in college, we worked together to develop an app to help immigrants find resources and connect with others in their location for support.
I watched as families were ripped apart. Our elderly neighbor had served in the military for twenty-five years before he lost a leg while putting his life on the line in service of the very country that deported him.
I’ve been yelled at, propositioned, and assaulted all because of where I was born or the color of my skin—none of which I could control. Judged not for my heart, but my skin and heritage. I know you can understand what that is like.
To be accepted into DACA (Deferred Action for Childhood Arrivals) you cannot have a criminal record. I thought this was common knowledge, but as the protests increased and immigration became the issue all over the news cycles, I heard them spreading lies on national television. They called us murderers, rapists, and criminals.
I lived in fear of leaving the house. Would I be stopped and asked for my papers? At least I was protected by DACA, but would the ICE officers obey the law and let me go? Would they detain me for however long they wished or deport me?
We are just like you. We are good, hardworking people trying to live a safe and better life for ourselves and our families. Some flee violence, others poverty, or some seek a better opportunity. Isn’t that what your founding fathers said this country was for? “Give me your tired, your poor, your huddled masses yearning to breathe free” is carved on your Statue of Liberty.
During this time, my mother still had to work, and she didn’t have papers. She’d take the bus rather than risk driving herself. When they started raiding buses, she began walking if I was at school and couldn’t drive her.
Each year, we received a letter from the cartel describing in detail what they were going to do to us. How they would dismember and torture us. They kept a detailed list of all the men who would rape us. They knew where we lived. That’s the thing about fear—when you live with it like a roommate every day of your life, it becomes the bar for what’s normal. You get used to it. And once you get comfortable, that’s when the real terror starts.
Executive orders were passed under the new administration by the same president who claimed he’d only deport criminals. My mother went for her usual yearly check-in with ICE, and as I waited for her to come out, I got a call to say my friend’s app had taken off and she’d been offered a large sum of money by another company who wanted to join our partnership. I was so excited to tell Mamá the news. To tell her she didn’t have to work so hard anymore. I could take care of her and she could rest and relax and volunteer like she’d wanted but never had time to do.
When she walked out of the building, my glee quickly faded, morphing into a sick feeling that twisted in my gut. Her face was ashen, drained of life as she approached the car.
I asked her what happened and then, with her next words, she tore out my heart.
“I’m being deported, mija. I have thirty days.”
I held the tears in as a fierce determination overtook everything. “No, you won’t, Mamá. This can’t be right. I’ll fix this. Don’t you worry,” I promised her.
I visited our senators, wrote to those in power in our state. I paid for a handful of lawyers with what money I’d saved. I petitioned and did everything else I could, but it wasn’t enough.
The last day my mother was in the U.S., I went over all our possibilities. Her life was at stake, and the only people who could protect us turned their faces away from us, pretending people like us were not the very lifeblood of this country. The new partnership with the app was still pending, and the funds were not accessible or I’d have paid the cartel off. I’d have given everything so that my mother would be safe.
I borrowed from friends to pay a coyote to return my mother as soon as she landed in Mexico. She packed light, because she’d be returning. I knew the journey would be hard on her. She was not as young as she’d been the first time we’d crossed. I pleaded with her to let me go with her, but she refused.
She gave me her wedding ring and told me to keep it because it carried the love that my father had for her, and they in turn had for me. That someday, it would help me find my love. I remember the way she smelled—like wild rose with a hint of lemon cleaner.
I think in my heart I knew she was saying goodbye, but my mind wouldn’t believe it. She was just preparing me for the worst, while hoping for the best.
I hugged her as tightly as I could. “The coyote will find you when you land—his name is Javier. I’ll see you at the border in a few days.” I kissed her cheek.
She smiled, not bothering to wipe the tears streaming down her face. “I love you, mija. I just want you to live a life that makes you happy and keeps you safe. I’m so proud of you.”
She kissed my forehead and gave me one final hug before she walked away. She left on a plane, taking her back to the land in which she was born—a place I barely remembered.
That was the last time I saw my mother alive.
